— Emma
Leaving Donwell Abbey, Elizabeth and Mrs. Knightley set out in the opposite direction from the gentlemen. Though Mrs. Knightley affected to let chance choose their course, Elizabeth sensed that her hostess had a destination in mind. She walked with purpose, and carried on her arm a basket with several small jars inside.
Their strides eventually brought them to a stream spanned by a small wooden footbridge. On the far bank, a path ran alongside the water toward a mill.
“This is a pretty walk,” Elizabeth said. “Do you take it often?”
“No. Mr. Knightley and I actually live at Hartfield, my father’s estate. Papa is in declining health and dependent upon my companionship. When we married, we thought it best to defer my permanent removal from the house until… until my father no longer needs me. We are presently at Donwell only because of last night’s party.”
“Mr. Knightley sacrificed his independence to reside in your father’s home?” Elizabeth could not imagine Darcy even temporarily relinquishing life at Pemberley to live with her parents at Longbourn.
“Mr. Knightley has known my father even longer than I have, and is as dutiful a son as Papa could wish for.”
They crossed the stream and followed the path until they reached a farmhouse. It was a small but sweet cottage, well cared for and cheerful despite the gloomy clouds that obscured the sun. They had approached it from the side; Mrs. Knightley led them to the front, which faced a narrow lane.
“This is Abbey Mill Farm,” Mrs. Knightley said. “We are here to visit Mrs. Harriet Martin, the young lady Frank Churchill rescued from the gypsies last May. If they have returned to the neighborhood, perhaps she can recall something that might aid us in apprehending your thieves.”
Their knock was answered by a pretty woman with an artless manner and ready smile. “Mrs. Knightley! I did not anticipate the pleasure — Oh, do forgive me! I have not yet waited upon you since your wedding-trip, but I had heard how occupied you were with the Churchill party. Was it a lovely affair? With you hosting it, I am certain it was! Do come in. Robert is out — he has taken his mother and sisters into the village. They will be sorry to have missed you.”
“I am sorry for it, too, but my object in calling was to see you. Here,” she said, reaching into her basket, “I have brought you some apple butter from Donwell Abbey.”
Mrs. Knightley made introductions, identifying Elizabeth as a visiting friend. Harriet offered a smile and invited them into her sitting room, a neat but busy space with an abundance of frilly curtains, pillows embroidered with flowery platitudes, and mediocre watercolors. A portrait of Harriet hung above the fireplace. It was a good likeness, painted by a more skilled artist than the other pictures, though in Elizabeth’s opinion it rendered its subject too tall.
Harriet ushered them into seats and attempted several times to take one herself. She leaped out of it at random intervals, however, as new ways to accommodate her guests entered her mind. She must make them tea. No? Would they like a bit of cake? The fire screen must be adjusted. Were they quite sure they did not want cake? Perhaps toast spread with the Donwell apple butter? There was a note she had written for Mrs. Knightley that now she could hand-deliver.
“It is a charade, actually.” Harriet seemed almost shy as she handed it to Mrs. Knightley. “I showed Robert the book of charades and other riddles I compiled last year. Do you remember what pleasure we had in collecting them? Why, even Mr. Elton contributed an original one. Robert asked whether I had written any of them myself, and when I said I had not, he encouraged me to try my hand at one.”
Mrs. Knightley unfolded the paper and read the lines to herself. After a moment, she smiled.
“What do you think, Miss Woodhouse — I mean, Mrs. Knightley? Have you solved it already? Oh, I can see that you have! You are always so clever at working out puzzles.”
“It is an excellent first attempt, Harriet. The meter in the last line wants refinement, but otherwise it is at least as good as some of the others in your book. Have you shown it to your husband?”
“Not yet. I wanted your opinion of it first.”
“I am sure it will please him very much. Shall we share it with Mrs. Darcy and see whether she can solve it?”
Harriet looked at Elizabeth hopefully. “If you are interested?”
“Indeed, yes.” Elizabeth accepted the page from Mrs. Knightley.
A place of worship, and a home
A place where wind or water turns
A place where crops and livestock grow
A place for which my heart yearns.
Elizabeth read it through twice. The third line came easily. From there, once she recalled the name of the Martins’ home, it was a facile effort to solve the charade. “Abbey Mill Farm?”
“You guessed! Is it too simple?”
“Not at all. Had Mrs. Knightley not told me the name of your home just as we approached, I would have been altogether at a loss.” Elizabeth handed the note back to Mrs. Knightley.
“The charade will be a worthy addition to your collection, Harriet.” Mrs. Knightley set it on a small table beside her. “It is interesting that you should be thinking of days past, for I wish to ask you about something that occurred last spring — the day you and Miss Bickerton encountered the gypsies on the Richmond road.”
“Oh.” Harriet sank into her seat and at last appeared likely to remain still for two minutes together. “Why ever do you want to talk about that? I thought they were long gone.”
“Mr. Knightley wishes to ensure that they remain so.”
“Oh! Well, it is as I told you. We — Miss Bickerton and I — were walking along, never imagining such persons were about. When we reached that very shady stretch — you know, past the bend — we slowed our pace. The morning was warm, so the shade felt refreshing, and we were happily conversing when we noticed the gypsy camp just ahead, on the greensward. They must have noticed us at the same time, for within moments a girl came running towards us and begged for a shilling.”
“How old was the girl?”
“Eight or nine. She had long, dark hair all tumbled about her.”
Elizabeth heard this with disappointment. The gypsy girl could not possibly be Miss Jones.
“Remind me what happened next,” Mrs. Knightley said.
“Miss Bickerton screamed and ran up an embankment to escape. I tried to follow her but a cramp in my leg stopped me. At least half a dozen more gypsy children rushed forward and surrounded me, all of them demanding money. And then a woman and a large boy appeared. I hoped they would tell the children to leave me in peace but instead they spoke gypsy-talk to them and the children begged all the more insistently. I have never been so frightened in my life. Look at me — I tremble even now to speak of it.”
“How very alarming,” Elizabeth said. “The woman — how old was she?”
“Oh, who can tell with such people? Fifty or sixty? Her hair was covered in a kerchief and her dress was wildly colored. Her eyes were even darker than the children’s — so dark I thought she could stare right through me.” Harriet shuddered. “She carried a basket of plants and had a charm around her neck, like some sort of witch-woman. I was terrified that she would give me the Evil Eye and throw a curse upon me, or worse! They say that is what gypsies do, you know. I offered them a shilling, and still they would not go away.”
“And this is when Frank Churchill happened along?” Mrs. Knightley asked.
“Yes, thank heaven! I do not know what would have become of me had he not been traveling to Richmond that day. I was in such terror that I did not even see him approach. Nor did the gypsies, for they were quite surprised when he suddenly appeared.”
Elizabeth recalled Mr. Knightley’s having said that Frank arrived at the scene on foot. “How did Mr. Churchill rescue you from the gypsies? What, precisely, did he do?”
“He gave a shout to draw their attention, then ordered them to leave me be.”
“And they immediately ceased harassing you?”
“Yes. He said he was going to summon the authorities and have them all arrested. I believe he quite frightened them. Even the woman looked at him in astonishment and hurried away.”
“They disbanded the camp quickly,” Mrs. Knightley added. “The entire party was gone by the time I told Mr. Knightley of the incident.”
“Did you see any English among the gypsies?” Elizabeth asked. “Female or male?”
“Oh, believe me, Mrs. Darcy, I wish I had! I would have begged their aid.”
A knock sounded on the door. It was not an unwelcome noise — Elizabeth hoped the arrival of a new visitor would enable her and Mrs. Knightley to exit gracefully. While she appreciated the opportunity to hear Harriet’s account firsthand, Elizabeth by this point despaired of obtaining any useful information. Harriet Martin was a sweet girl, but not exceedingly clever.